Quiet Rivers

Shadow of a Woman

Ree Joy — Tue, 09 Sep 2008 22:19:55 +0000

I am not brilliant
in any two-minute way,
or in any explosive manner
you want to name.
I merely perceive my world
through my reactions to it;
the quality of my own mortifications,
the incongruous way speechlessness
takes over my senses
when beholding wonders,
the easy way words run into the meadows
to chase feelings and butterfly wings.
I write, moved, transported
elsewhere,
with found honesty,
when time and words conspire
to compress some semblance of beauty
into substance,
or sent spinning,
in place yet helter-skelter,
aware yet unawakened,
catatonic with unmitigated desire -
helplessly unmanned by what was withheld –
transfixed with unshed tears,
plunged into the oblivion of the unspoken
and the unseeing.
I am not brilliant; merely
consumed, in your absence.
Not insane, not I; merely aglow,
in your presence.
I merely wake, and awake reach
my world, in the texture
of your dialogue, and the resonance
you evoke as you delve into me.
Merely a man, in twilight,
and all my meadows behind,
and butterflies set free
before they were even caught,
and everything
that was never said
in all the years bled past.
A man, and lost time, in the shadow
of a woman.

Oasis

Ree Joy — Tue, 09 Sep 2008 02:56:22 +0000

I bask warm when you speak;
my soul a drop away from the brim,
my heart that breathless instant
before it becomes
prey
running from the pack.

I inhale you to me, and I do not
want to breathe out
again,
even as I hold all thought at bay, away,
while thirst holds sway,
instantly fulfilled, immediately slaked,
by words that are no mirage,
by my sense of you.

I find my questions superfluous
as I am enfolded
in answers like arms needing no words;
what you say, what you leave
unspoken,
how you say it, how you fill
the spaces in-between,
takes me to the warmth, to rain,
when my senses can taste sweet grass
in the desert air, and not be
inundated.

I bask in the warm of these,
my whimsies,
where I can dance
through your dreams,
believing myself there, painting
my desire with your brushes, etching
the shadows of you
with unwearied fingers and hands and tongue,
and trusting self and I, safe
in your weavings.

I inhale sanctuary into me,
that short minute
between my day and yours,
among all the concerns that draw us away
even before hello,
and I do not want to breathe out again,
even as I do.

Trinity

Ree Joy — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 03:59:39 +0000

“Threeness, trinity, or triad, has always been considered sacred–like oneness, duality, and all numbers–by virtue of its very properties and particular attributes. These properties and attributes are manifested in its threefold nature, which of itself is the inevitable expression of a principle, an archetypal fact, that solidifies in a series, as a representation of ideas and energies that materialize in magical, mysterious fashion while obeying precise, universal laws, which the numerical codes and their geometrical correspondences symbolize.

The symbol of the triad or trinity has existed over immeasurable time and throughout the world. It can be understood as a key to the integrity and interdependence of all existence. It is a symbol of the unity of body, mind and spirit. The symbol is of universal significance - it is found throughout history and all over the world. It was popularized early in this century by the Russian-born artist, philosopher and scientist Nicholas Roerich. It can be interpreted in many different senses: spirit/mind/body in a circle of synthesis; past/present/future enclosed in the ring of eternity; art/science/religion bound in a circle of culture.

The oldest of Indian symbols, Chintamani, the sign of happiness, is composed of this symbol and it can be found in the Temple of Heaven in Beijing. It appears in the Three Treasures of Tibet; on the breast of the Christ in Memling’s famous painting; on the Madonna of Strasbourg; on the shields of the Crusaders and coat of arms of the Templars. It can be seen on the blades of the famous Caucasian swords called “Gurda” and on the swords of Japanese nobility.

It appears as a symbol in several philosophical systems. It can be discovered on the images of Gessar Khan and Rigden Djapo; on the “Tamga” of Timurlane and on the coat of arms of the Popes. It can be seen in the works of ancient Spanish painters and of Titian, and on the ancient ikon of St. Nicholas in Bari and that of St. Sergius and the Holy Trinity. It appears on the coat of arms of the city of Samarkand, on Ethiopian and Coptic antiquities, on the rocks of Mongolia, on Tibetan rings, on Buddhist banners, on the breast ornaments of all the Himalayan countries, and on the pottery of the Neolithic age.”

Excerpts from Great Dreams.

As If Those Years Never Went Away

Ree Joy — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 23:54:50 +0000

the first time
i heard your voice
again –
like summer warmth,
like the blanket
of a sultry summer night,
like your smile was never lost,
like love never took a vacation –
my soul, winter-chilled so long,
melted into spring,
into the green and the heart
of another exultation,
into a fiercer need,
a greater wanting;
to be held
again, in your arms,
to hold you once more,
a thousand nights more, into me,
to claim the hours, the days, the years
when your heartbeats were not there
to warm my own,
to hold you, oh to hold you,
as if those years
never went
away.

It’s All About Time in America

Ree Joy — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 00:12:38 +0000

To write poetry in America,
you have to be old
and spent,
or young and wastefully bent,
rich enough not to work
for another penny,
you have to be a nurse
off your weekly cycle of work,
you have
to be off your rocker;
you have to be one, or both,
or all of these things.
Wasting in want,
wanting, even in plenty.

To write a poem on love
in America,
you have to wing it
while racing the train,
you need
to be able to drive
one-handed
while you wank your pen,
you have to do it
in your sleep,
you have to make love
together
apart.

To fall in love in America,
you have to be lonely
like all Americans,
you have to be
too busy to care so that
all of a sudden, like all things
that matter,
it just hits you in the gut
and spills out what,
in your eagerness to grab
your piece of the earth,
you have never
been able to say.

To write poetry in America,
you have to buy time
for distance, then buy more time
to reclaim what you have lost
in going away,
and after you’ve finally remembered
to breath,
you have to be able to buy
more time, for words,
so you can say the same thing
over and over again,
like Hail Mary
and Full of Grace,
like I love you,
and always will.